Artifice
by spheeris1
Summary: AU :: Ashley's POV mostly :: Set in & around 1939 :: Angst. Love. The business of acting. :: Multi-chapter :: Between life and art is where people lose themselves... :: Ashley/Aiden content, eventual Spashley
1. the roles

**Is this a case of too many irons in the fire? Whatever. I watched a thing about Errol Flynn last month and am listening to Duke Ellington right now and this story came to life.**

**Updates will happen. At some point.**

/ /

You've done it, I know you have.  
You've gotten up, coffee in the pot and paper on the table, and your lips kiss his cheek.  
You kiss that cheek, because that is what you must do.  
His cheek was made for you, wasn't it?  
Stubble and after-shave, pressing his suits and folding his socks... Isn't that the life?  
The one laid out for you, spit-shined for you the moment you are born - ladled into your mouth with a silver spoon?  
You've done it.  
I know you have.

I've done it, too.

Maybe not now. Maybe not right this second.  
I've earned the right to play my own games, haven't I?  
I've earned the right to live two lives.  
That's what those paychecks afford, you know... Not cars and not mink coats, though I have several of each.  
That's what those funny little pictures get me, all my lines delivered with equal parts big-city charm and wounded-woman underneath... Not just my photograph in a magazine and not just a walk down the red carpet, though I am everywhere one can look these days.

I've done it, too.  
I've kissed his cheek, let his hand rest against my stomach, allowed him to set up residence in my life. Like a pet I do not care for. Like a child I cannot bother with. Like a forgotten thing, tossed aside the moment it was mine.

But, lest you get the wrong idea, it's not because I cannot love.  
I am no frigid girl. I come from the wilderness, raised in the woods and with red clay along my bare feet. I was just another girl, smile too wide and brown curls too pretty around my face.  
I loved to make a splash. I loved to make a scene.  
Now, I fill them up and now I jump into pools with my eyes closed.

Now, I am Ashley Davies - a star.

Now, I am Ashley Davies - sunglasses on as I slip away from home, past the quiet avenues and palm trees, through the lights and away from Hollywood.  
I rush away from this limelight as quick as I can, pedal to the floor and every cover taken care of - because I am important and I am famous... and studio-heads will weave any tale they have to in order to milk a career.

You can be a drunk. You can take drugs. You can chase after young girls. Or boys. Or both.  
You can crash your car. You can cheat on your spouse.  
You can do just about damn near anything.

Just don't tell the truth about it.  
Kiss his cheek. Fold those socks. Let his hands hold you in the flash of those bulbs.  
And then you can race away, under the shadow of the night, back to where you come from - back to what you are.

A native lady, slipping off the skin like a snake, in her old stomping grounds - where they found me and seduced me away, where I left everything that was me behind - and I return to a world that knows to lie right along with me.

Because I am something.  
And because they are... well, they are not me, are they?

They can go to jail, whereas I will not. They can be beaten and strung up, whereas I can turn to that man I call 'husband' and he'll not sell me out.  
They are not safe at all.  
I am protected, Fort Knox in contracts and money and my name.  
And as much as I miss the freedom, I've worked too hard to let this all crumble down around me. I've worked too hard to have it all.

Even this.  
Even this night, where I park my car and walk inside this place and take off my coat.  
Even this moment, where I order a drink and no one asks my name and no one gushes to me about my latest film.  
Even this, with my eyes scanning the dark and dusky room. With my eyes following every curve of every woman within my scope, like a dying man given a breath of air.

I've worked hard to have this.  
So, I won't give up that other life that makes this one possible.  
The world would have to pry it from my hands and they won't dare do that.

Because I have my illusions.  
And so do they.

/ /

"Ashley, you're wanted on set."  
"Tell'em they can wait. My new make-up girl and I are having a chat."  
"Seriously, they need you on your marks in five."  
"It'll be ten."

She lightly kicks the door to her trailer shut and the make-up girl, some little slip of a thing called Kyla, smiles at Ashley's reflection in the mirror.  
Ashley smiles back, as friendly as the day will allow, and urges the girl to continue her tale of growing up in the swamps of Florida - alligators and pontoons and Indians who still send up smoke signals.

"Really, Ms. Davies, what I'm saying can't be that important..."  
"Sure it is. I've heard all the other stories around here, from Mac the night-watchman* to the director of this disaster, so it's up to you to entertain me."  
"'Disaster'? But I thought this was a romance."  
"Exactly."

Kyla looks confused and Ashley merely smirks, glancing at her face as the vanity lights hit every angle. She appears as smooth as silk, foundation and lipstick and eye-shadow, a kind of pale goddess... Not at all the haggard visage that a war-time nurse surely has.  
But her 'uniform' is starched white, nary a drop of blood on it, just another disguise.  
Ashley sighs and waves Kyla away from her duties, watching the girl snap the powder case shut.

"If I had my way, Kyla, I'd never make another romance picture."

The girl looks aghast, holding the silver compact of blush to her chest.

"But **why**? They're such wonderful movies."  
"...Are they really, though?"  
"They are, Ms. Davies, I can promise you that. My sister and I really enjoy them. Every Saturday, they we are, in the front row."

Ashley wants to smile and be gracious. Because Kyla sounds like the many fan letters she receives - girls from across the country, swept away by words she didn't write and feelings she doesn't mean, wanting her tips to being beautiful and how to snag the perfect man.  
How to tame Clark Gable. How to handle James Cagney. How to find a Gary Cooper.  
Waves upon waves of young girls without a single thought in their heads beyond a boy's hand to hold and a lifetime of fairy-tale love ahead...

...Ashley **should** smile, like that camera is on her right now, lovely and false.  
So she does. She smiles at Kyla and the girl cheerily smiles back.

"I suppose you are right, Kyla. And I like nothing more than giving my fans what they want."

She winks at the make-up girl and stands up, running her palms down over the skirt. She takes one last look in the mirror and the woman looking back is Nurse Jane - patriotic but still demure, the one every soldier fights for.  
Ashley cannot see herself at all.

It's terrifying.

"Ashley, god-dammit, get out here now!" The muffled voice of the director cuts through the silence, followed by a pounding on the door for good measure.  
She squares her shoulders, used to the real role she is playing - day in and day out, a caricature of a starlet.  
She flings the door open, one sculpted eyebrow lifted.  
"Is there a problem, George?"  
"We are already **three days **behind schedule and I am not some trained monkey for RKO, so you better start showing up. And **on time**! Got it?"  
"Oh, yes** sir**. I mean... it's not like I am the reason you are getting to do this film... right? It's not **my** name that will draw the crowds, it's yours."

His red-face, practically bubbling over with anger, is worth the act. The sound of his shoes stomping away is just icing on the cake.  
Her co-star stands off to the side, shaking his head with a grin, and makes a 'tsk-tsk' motion with his hand. She merely shrugs as she calmly walks onto the set, eyes not even blinking as the over-head lights come on and hit the white sheet behind her - which will soon be turned into tanks roaring by in the background.

"You made that vein pop in his forehead, Ash."  
"Then the day is a success already."  
"I'd hate to get on your bad side..."  
"Then don't do it, Carlin."

Glen Carlin holds his hands up in a mock surrender, looking smart in his military outfit. He seems every bit the handsome hero, curly blonde hair and dazzling smile, a candy-store medal pinned to his chest.  
But then, that's RKO for you, they can make so many films per year because they don't waste cash on props. Or on sets. Or on directors.  
Just on their stars. Just on their bread-and-butter. Just on their golden tickets.

And the call to action is heard. And the clap-board slaps loudly, Andrew calling out the number of this particular take.  
Then, just like that, Nurse Jane is looking around frantically - amidst the sounds of war and destruction, stepping out of her world of bedside manner and into the fray... All for the man she cannot forget, the love she dare not dream of.  
Out of the melee, battered but not broken, steps Captain John Harding - calling her name, shouting it just the once, and Nurse Jane turns... and she is weeping, with relief and with joy.  
They run to each other as the war continues, two souls finding one another as everything else falls apart.  
An embrace. A few well-chosen words. A kiss.  
And end scene. Cut and print.

"Look at him, sitting there and trying to find a way to make me do it over... Self-righteous **ass**." Ashley mutters as she and Glen disentangle themselves.  
The young man laughs a bit, fishing around for and finding a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out.  
"Why do you have it out for him again?"  
"It doesn't matter. Let's just finish this thing and be done with it."

The fact is, Ashley doesn't really have it out for George. She doesn't have it out for anyone, except maybe herself to a certain degree.  
She plays a wife to the magazines and at parties. She plays the bitch to directors and to some co-stars. She has more lives than she knows what to do with - and none of them are truly her, none of them are truly Ashley Davies.

That girl only comes out at night, sneaking around corners like a monster, gruesome longings kept to the shadows and to a universe of dusk.  
That girl cannot see the light of day. That girl is the mirage in the distance.  
And that girl is drifting further away with every second that goes by.

So, a few more scenes are wrapped up. A few more actors float in and out of moments, the walking wounded one minute... and then fake bandages torn off, fake gashes wiped away.  
A couple of the minors are talking about hitting a bar down the street, of making a night of it and Glen Carlin - newly appointed 'Most Popular of 1939' in all the Hollywood rags - is not one to pass up a chance to have a little fun.  
This is his third film and everyone is eating him up - the girls and the boys, the gossip columnists and the public eye - and he is loving it.  
Ashley knows how that feels. She recalls the heady rush of that first walk down the street, just outside the gates of the studio, and being recognized.  
Being recognized and being mobbed, papers to sign and hands on her - eager touches from awed fans - it was addicting and Ashley ran after that feeling with a grin on her lips.  
She set out to conquer and she did it.  
Highest paid actress around and the right to demand roles, to talk back to directors, to be late to any event or any job... and the right to hide, to hold fast to a secret world all her own, to lock away every original part of herself.

Yes, it was addicting.  
At first. In the beginning. But just like everything else wonderful, it tends to lose that shine after a while. And fame is not exempt from this malady.

"You should come with, Ash. I'm calling some friends down and my sister is stopping by... you could bring Aiden if you like, of course..." Glen's voice is not too deep, not too childish. It is the perfect mix of youth and age. And his eyes light up with what could be - good alcohol and endless laughs and women who will do anything to catch his eye.  
In some other world, Ashley could make quite the match with Glen Carlin.  
They'd paint the town red, cause a scandal or two, and still bring home the bacon with their thousand-watt smiles.  
In some other world, Ashley could leave Aiden behind and take Glen Carlin to a clandestine part of the city, where you talk in whispers and there are code-words to remember... and she could show him a realm of want, a kingdom of hidden pleasures.

It would wipe that hayseed charm right off his face.

But no, too much work has gone into this piece of fiction that is her life, and Ashley won't sacrifice it just to shock a boy who thinks he knows it all.

"Not tonight, Carlin. I hate to say it, but Aiden and I are that retiring sort - slippers and pipe, rum by the fireside..."  
He laughs softly, a twinkle in his gaze that suggests a bit of disbelief, and Ashley schools her expression to a place of even further innocence - the duller, the better.  
"Fine, fine. Maybe some other time, though, before the picture is finished?"  
"Of course. Count on it."

They smile at one another and Glen waves his good-bye. The lights slowly go down, one by one, as Ashley walks back to her trailer.  
The sound of doors shutting and the murmurs of conversation move on by as she shuts the door, her fingers undoing buttons and slipping off shoes.  
And Kyla is gone for the evening, sent away by some lackey that Ashley ordered around, all so she could wipe the slate clean herself.  
So Ashley could watch in the mirror as her hands sweep gently over her cheeks, along her jawline and across her forehead - wiping away Nurse Jane, wiping away the artifice... stripping her down to the basics.

Brown hair hanging loosely, pins finally removed. Brown eyes set in an ivory-and-rose scrubbed face. Lips no longer deep red, just an average shade of pink.

And Ashley sighs, looking at herself, stocking up on these moments like one collects shells from the shore - a memento of a nice time, a better time, a sweeter time.

"'Bout to lock up, Ms. Davies." Mac calls evenly through her door and Ashley closes her eyes, wills away all of this - the fame, the films, this life with a husband and a house and the constant scrutiny and these never-ending lies.

But she opens them again and, as she is well aware, not a damn thing has changed.

/ / /

**To Be Continued...**


	2. the act

When you close your eyes, for a split second, the world isn't yours.

It belongs to another woman. Maybe she has hints of your face or shades of your personality, but this woman is happy to open the front door to domesticity.  
She greets every day with a sure grin, grabbing the paper from the porch and pouring the coffee. She whistles while she irons those stiff white shirts, the ones with sharp lines, all for a man she so loves.  
And, elsewhere in this fantasy, there are children - a boy and a girl - the pitter patter of little feet all along the hallways and up and down the stairs.

And maybe you should envy this other woman.  
Maybe you wish for a moment of her blissful simplicity, the knowledge that every day is laid out before her as clear as the horizon - the shoes she will wear, the laughs she will have, the hour in which she'll put her head down upon the pillow and slumber.

This other woman has it all figured out.  
Of course, the sum just doesn't fit your problem, does it?

And when you open your eyes, all the facts and the figures remain the same.

You've got maids to iron and you've got maids to make breakfast. You've got a driver to take you places, if you so wish.  
You know the newspaper will be sitting there at the dining room table, no need for you to fetch it like a loyal dog - paw extended for a shake.  
You don't have time for children and, more than that, you don't have patience for children.  
Tiny things running around with your smile and his eyes... It's enough to sober you straight and you aren't even drunk.

Maybe you should envy this other woman.  
But you don't.

Still, she smiles at you like you are the chump in this life and you wonder if she might be right.

/ /

Aiden's hand is on her elbow.  
As if guiding a ship to shore and Ashley grips her glass just a bit tighter even as her face remains placid and cool.  
When someone asks a question of them both, they smile knowingly at one another and finish each other's sentences.

Practice, after all, makes perfect.

And if she cannot act her way through this marriage, then her talents on screen would be less than stellar by default.  
Even Aiden could make a play for the stage with his ability to smile disarmingly and make all comments seem warm, seem affectionate.  
Ashley thinks that of all the actors and wannabe-actors in this nightclub tonight, she and Aiden are probably the best at truly acting.

It takes the craftsmanship of a real artist to create something where there is nothing at all.

"Three is the limit."

His voice wafts over her ear, a whisper amid the den of jovial post-filming noise, but it might as well be a shovel to the side of her head with how agonizing it is to hear him speak.  
But this is the price to be paid, one of many in Ashley's existence.

She can drink, but not too much in public.  
She can go where she pleases, but not until past one in the morning.  
She can go to parties, but Aiden must be there.

These are the rules.  
Her rules, the studio's rules, the rules of good and decent society.  
These rules give Ashley fame and fortune - and they bind her as surely as chains would, snug around her wrists and ankles, imprisonment masked as freedom.

Ashley pulls Aiden to her, placing a chaste kiss to his cheek and she knows that his lips are slowly turning upwards - not because he cares, not because either of them care, but for all of those eyes that are looking.  
Her voice is soft, yes, but that is merely in volume.  
The tone of it, for his ears only, is as hard as stone.

"I know** my **limit. You're the one who tends to go on a bender."

That hand slides from her elbow and to her wrist, giving it just the barest squeeze.  
That is the extent of his anger these days, a fraction of his impotent rage that cannot be held back. And she almost wishes he would blow up, right here in front of everyone, just so she'd have a legal excuse to divorce him and save her own face to the public.

But Aiden likes this life about as much as Ashley does.  
He won't give it up, either.

"Ashley! Glad you could make it this time around... and this must be your husband, Aiden... right?"

Glen Carlin is clearly three sheets to the wind, gaze simultaneously wild and lazy, shaking Aiden's hand rapidly.

"Yes, this is Aiden... Dear, this is my co-star from my latest picture, Glen Carlin."  
"Ah, I've seen your face all over lately, Mr. Carlin." Aiden says with a polite smile and Glen waves his hand in a dismissive way as he takes another sip of what appears to be champagne.  
"**Please**, call me Glen. 'Mr. Carlin' is my father. And you, my good fellow, must feel about as lucky as a fast horse on a dry track, eh?"

Ashley fights off the smirk that wants to bust forth upon her lips at Aiden's civil features clouding over in confusion. To the untrained observer, nothing is amiss. But underneath the surface, there is the horrible joy at another person's discomfort.

There is her joy at Aiden's discomfort.

"I'm not sure I follow-"  
"Well, I mean, you've snagged yourself a beauty of a wife. If you don't mind me saying so."

And Glen winks at Ashley. And she appraises the actor standing so close, with his tie a little too loose and hair just a tad ruffled, and once again wonders what life would have been like if she had met Glen Carlin instead of Aiden Dennison.

But it would have just been another make-believe world, Ashley knows this all too well.  
The face might have been different, but the words and the actions would have stayed the same.  
Lines repeated no matter the change in scenery - that's the entirety of Ashley's universe.

And there is seemingly no way back from this reality.

"Oh, well, yes. Every day I think she grows more lovely."

And Aiden smiles and Ashley tilts her head invitingly and they kiss as if it means something special, as if it means anything at all.  
There is the distinct 'click' sound first and then a very familiar flash of light.  
And despite all her training to do otherwise, Ashley's head whips towards the intrusion.  
She might have to be here with her 'husband' and have to show all these people this grand facade of wondrous commitment, but this is a night for cast and crew - not ambulance chasers and snippy gossip hounds.

Of course, if it had been scripted and all the cues had been set, then this would have been the defining act, the pivotal scene.  
This moment would have informed every single audience member of what is to come, no need to foreshadow or build or tease - everyone knows what comes next and they can't wait for it to begin.

Ashley knows what comes next, too.

/ /

"Ashley, this is my annoying little sister-"  
"Glen, give it a **rest** already!"  
"What? It's** true**! She's been bugging me since we were in short-pants."  
"I really cannot **believe** you..."

A wave of dark pink rushes up the neck and then paints across each cheek, stopping just short of the cheekbones. It makes the eyes stand out even more, adds another level of color to that deep blue.

And Ashley swallows hard and almost steps backwards.  
She might have even walked away all-together if it weren't for Aiden's arm about her waist, holding her back and reining her in.

"And her annoying camera. You two are not the first she's shot tonight."  
"I am **serious**, Glen. Stop it **now**."

And there, quick as lightning, that gaze - all irritated and slightly childish - flickers from Glen and lands on Ashley, where the sibling disdain is washed out by mild worry.  
And Ashley has the urge to erase that concern, to wipe it away like teachers do with chalk to the blackboard.  
But Aiden beats her to it.

"It's really no problem. Ashley and I are used to such things."

It sounds pompous and arrogant. And that's because it is.  
Aiden revels in this lifestyle, a well-dressed pig in the slop. But Ashley is no better, not really. Maybe that is why they have grown to hate each other so much - they are wickedly alike.

The music starts up again - if it ever truly stopped - which prompts more dancing and more singing along. Glen joins in on the fun, eager to be a part of the here and now, happy to be the man of the hour and the star on the rise.  
It shows on his face, red eyes and the start of slurring speech, the joy of being on top of the world - where he is single and desired and going places.

Not tied down to a spouse.  
Not hemmed in by executive pressure.  
Not living more lies than one can count.

"We haven't really been introduced... I'm Spencer, Spencer Carlin."

And it probably shows on Ashley's face.  
If anyone were looking closely enough. If anyone could peel back the layers she has put on.  
Wary eyes and a heavy tongue, the fear of being on top of the world - where she is owned and trapped and going nowhere.

Tied to Aiden.  
Hemmed in by the big-wigs and the studio heads.  
Living more than one life and none of them belonging solely to Ashley Davies.

Still, she takes Spencer Carlin's hand into her own.  
And somewhere in her soul, banked down deep with the flames she tries so diligently to maintain control over, Ashley knows what it coming.

Ashley knows that someone is going to get burned.

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	3. the image

What no one sees, those moments not caught on the silver screen, is the way your gaze lingers where it should not.

A far horizon that you keep glancing at, like a pilot, eyes drifting towards somewhere else - a place you might call your own, a land where you might be able to be honest and true, a new world just for you and those things about you that are kept in shadow.

Or the turn of a cheek, a white expanse in the lime-light, and ruby red lips in a knowing grin. You've lingered on those images as well, as bad as any lovelorn fan sitting in their den.  
You've wondered at the sensation that flesh would make against your fingertips.  
Would they be as soft as they appear? Would they kiss you like a thief - sneaking clenches on the sly? Would they grasp your hand as you tumble down together?

Fantasies, though, are best when they are silent.

The fan and their longing.  
The star and their wishes.  
Best kept to the darkness, best kept as quiet as a confessional booth.

And heaven forbid if anyone ever saw past your act, if anyone ever cut past your bluff and bluster, if anyone ever saw the actual you - mistakes and all, desires and more.

Heaven forbid if your fantasies ever had a shot of coming to life.

/ /

He's close to the edge, but not going over it.  
And Ashley is dismayed, as always.  
Because a drunk Aiden is a sloppy Aiden, prone to messing up in front of others, and the sweet sense of satisfaction tends to feel good swirling around in Ashley's veins.

She likes seeing him look stupid. It adds something worthwhile to this farce of a marriage they are in and it levels the playing field between them.  
They keep score of the slights. They keep a tally of when the other missteps and they use it against each other, too.

Cold and calculating. A match for the ages.

It makes Ashley ruefully laugh as she holds fast to her half-glass of alcohol, looking blandly at the merry-makers in this crowded club as they dance around and smoke fills the air.  
She notices Glen in the midst of it all, grinning and tie finally gone from his neck, a pretty young girl attached to his hip - they kiss and they sway and he passes his lit cigarette over to her bow-shaped lips.

She sees the extras and some of the grips. She sees the shimmying of those women getting paid to be here, to be the entertainment for packs of drooling boys in expensive suits.  
She watches as the dim lights catch on the band as it plays - trumpets become more golden as they croon, the sheen of sweat on bare foreheads as they bob and weave.

It is the vision all of America has of Hollywood at its finest, the land of magic and mystery.  
The land of milk and honey, this is Oz on Earth - that's what everyone believes.

That's what everyone **wants** to believe.

Ashley used to believe it, too.

But as the party continues to intensify, she slips away to the back entrance and to a brief second of reality - the dank and dirty side-street, garbage cans and stray cats, brick and cool air.  
And her back leans against the wall and her eyes close and she inhales deeply, trying to gain some semblance of fact and lose some of the fiction.  
Ashley tries to inhale something much more elusive than oxygen.

"I found it to be quite stuffy in there, too."

Ashley opens her eyes once more and there is Glen's sister, Spencer Carlin, not three feet away. On her own wall. Ankles crossed comfortably. Camera held securely in her right hand.  
And Ashley can only blink, internally startled and not wanting that reaction to show on her face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spook you, Ms. Davies. If someone had spoken to me from the depths of this eerie alley, I'd not be pleased either."

And Spencer pushes off from the wall, walking into the minimal amount of light from the lamp post overhead and offers a small smile.  
Ashley has been on the receiving end of many entreaties, romantic and business and otherwise, and there was always a trick up a person's sleeve.

Do this and we'll pay you more. Do this and they'll love you more. Do this and you can have it all. Do this and he'll stay quiet. Do this and she'll disappear.

But in Spencer Carlin's smile, Ashley can find nothing but a smile.  
Of course, Ashley could only be searching for that horizon or that kiss in Spencer's gorgeous face - a lie she will tell herself for a second of peace - but out here, away from the noise of the club and away from that husband and away from the oppressive glitter of fame, Ashley finds her own lips quirking upward in response.

"That's alright, Ms Carlin. We all need a good scare once in a while."

And Spencer's smile widens and her head tilts to the left slightly and strands of blonde hair fall gently upon the girl's shoulder.  
And Ashley's feels the heat get just a tad closer, igniting in her stomach and spreading out, her insides just tender to this spark of interest.

"I suppose so, Ms. Davies."  
"Call me Ashley."

It is quick, like lightning, but Ashley swears she sees it.  
A flash of recognition. A hint of what could possibly come. All of that in Spencer's blue eyes, in this alley way in the middle of the very early morning, and Ashley watches as eyelashes flutter down - slow and with purpose.

And then, they are looking at one another.  
And Ashley breathes in deeply.  
And there, in Spencer Carlin, she thinks she might have found that something elusive after all.

"Then you must call me Spencer."

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	4. the illusion

Who were you then?  
All those many moons ago, before the house and the cars and ticker-tape parade that is your life now - who did you used to be?

It's not that you've forgotten.  
Just misplaced her, that girl from some town that no one knows and from some family that is long gone, just set her off to the side.  
You might have said it was just for a while, just for a little bit.

But, no, it ended up being for much longer than you could have imagined.

Gone is your accent. Gone is the way you'd mispronounce certain words.  
Gone are those dresses made of old cloth. Gone are those leather shoes, cracked with use.  
Gone is the tree you once climbed, skinning your bare knees, as you drew closer and closer to sweet apples.  
Gone is the dusty road you walked on, books bound by your grandfather's belt, as you daydreamed about a million wonderful things.

And gone are the girls, the ones you used to let braid your hair and the ones who used to giggle when you'd tickle them in the barn, their interest in you so innocent and so simple.

And gone are the days when your interest in them was simple, too.

You were still loving them, as wrong as it was and as sinful as it was, but your love was kind and your affection was timid.  
And those girls would kiss your cheek before running home.  
And you'd daydream about those kisses the next day, walking down that road to the school-house, head fraught with an unheard of longing.

And who you used to be lingers in that tree, still strolls down that dirt-covered one lane, waits in that barn for good girls to return.

And who you are now, oh who you are now, is more of a mystery each and every day.

/ /

He catches you on the lot.  
That last picture has made him the face of action - the soldier in every street, the cowboy on every horse - and there he stands, costume of some other hero covering his body.

But Ashley cannot cast stones.  
She is every heroine - every strong girl left behind, every dame in need of a witty mate - the silver screen has dubbed her the woman that all the women want to be.

It's laughable as much as it is sad.  
She keeps those tears at bay, though. No need to cry over spilt milk - especially when you've only got yourself to blame for the liquid hitting the floor.

"How's tricks, kid?" Glen Carlin asks, cigarette hanging from his lips as he grins.  
And Ashley grins in return, though her smile carries a bit of an edge to it. Not that a boy like Glen Carlin would ever notice.  
He sees stars in those pretty blue eyes and not much else.  
Ashley understands, though.  
She used to do the very same thing, back in the beginning, back when all she was willing to give up was wonderfully worth it.

"'Kid'? I'm older than you... **kid**."  
"True. But stop avoiding the question, Ashley. How are things? Hear you've got a real doozy of a show going on over there..."

Gossip spreads fast on the lots, one film or another getting the 'bad' kind of attention - lazy directors or drunk actors or a stunt-man breaks his neck.  
And Ashley Davies has been known to cause her fair share of set drama.  
Usually it would distract from other things - Aiden being a real ass or a hidden romance threatening to become less hidden - but there have been times where she was truly being a hard actress to manage.  
Perhaps it was her subtle method of rebellion. Perhaps it was her need to shake up her own twisted creation.  
A sort of Ashley versus Ashley, a metaphysical moment that only she knew about.

This new film, full of crime and intrigue and her shocked face in every frame, does have some stumbling blocks in her co-star.  
The man looks so good on camera, thousand-watt smile and a jaw that could cut glass, but once you turn the lens away...

"He's a bit of hard work. Very temperamental."  
"More so than you?"

Glen says it with a smirk, though. She knows he is joking and she allows it.

"Much more. Anyway, doesn't matter. Wrap it up and put it to bed, I won't lose sleep over it."  
"Good, good. No need to worry about, right?"  
"Nope. And look at you... What is it this time? You look straight out of some back-water turkey shoot, Carlin."  
"Sounds like you know what you're talking about..."  
"Hardly."

But, of course, she does.  
Out there is a town she used to know, people she used to call upon as friends, a life she used to be a part of. And it was as far from Hollywood as the moon is from Earth.

"Look, I've gotta head back, but how about you and that husband of yours join me for drinks tonight?"  
"Oh... I don't know-"  
"C'mon, it'll be fun. Besides, I want you to meet this girl I'm seeing. She's a real treat, a dancer."

And the boy winks and Ashley laughs despite herself, but she does not agree to the meet up.  
Not because of Glen. Not because of some dancer.  
But going out with Aiden is never a pleasant time, it is just one of those things she has to do sometimes. If she doesn't have to, then she doesn't go out of her way to do so.

"I doubt we can make tonight. Sorry."  
"Rain check then?"  
"Of course."  
"Right, back to the salt mines, eh?"

They wave each other off and go back to their worlds of make-believe, respectively. Glen and his guns and his 'folksy' charm. Ashley and her get-away car and her piercing scream in the night.

Back to that world within a world.  
Those lies within lies.

/ /

Two weeks later, that rain check finally got cashed.

Glen and his new lady love, Betty with the green eyes, sitting opposite and smiling wide and drinking liberally.  
Aiden and Ashley on the other side of this table, smiling with practiced sincerity and taking small sips of the alcohol.  
Neither of them are to be trusted if they imbibed more than necessary.  
Lips can become loose and secrets could be uttered and the fantasy that the two of them rely on would be shattered.

Of course, there are moments when Ashley wants just that.

This evening is not all bad, though.

Because, next to Glen is that other Carlin - the far more lovely of the siblings - and there is no camera hanging from her pretty neck tonight.  
It is Spencer Carlin, unadorned and beautiful without even trying, cheekbones naturally rosy and a smile that needs no drink, needs no direction.  
Ashley does not mean to stare, but she is sure that she does - once or twice - and she is sure that Spencer notices.  
Notices and does not look away.  
Notices and does not blush, does not act coy.

It makes Ashley's blood rush around her head wildly, as if she were going to faint.

"She **begged** to come along once she knew you'd be here, Ash."  
"**Glen**."

Spencer's warning tone only makes Ashley's smile go from fake to genuine.

"You've got yourself a fan." Glen teases and Spencer wastes no time in smacking her brother on his shoulder. But Glen just smirks at the blonde.  
"I don't mind having another fan." Ashley cut in smoothly and Spencer looks over at her, grin a bit sheepish, but still not shy.  
"It's not like that, really, I mean-" Spencer sort of stutters and stops and Ashley finds it absolutely adorable.  
Ashley is mesmerized by this woman and has been since she first laid eyes on her, since they talked in the shadows of the alley-way.  
But reality is never far away, never content to sit back and let dreams come out to play.

"Ashley certainly does love her fans. She'd give them the world if only they'd ask. Isn't that right, **dear**?"

Aiden's voice is the proverbial bucket of cold water and the implications of his words run down her spine like ice.  
And Spencer isn't the only one who noticed Ashley's gazing.  
And it was careless. And it was a little too blatant. And Ashley wants to push this table over, rip this ring off her fourth finger and run away.  
Run until she cannot see this life anymore, run until she reaches a place left behind, run until there is somewhere she can just be herself... just be who she once was again.

Aiden knows where her bodies are buried, though.  
Just as she knows all his coveted desires, all his pent-up frustrations.  
They cover for one another.  
They are partners in the biggest crime of all - the delusion of self.

"Yes... my fans mean everything to me..." Ashley says quietly and Glen toasts to those faces in the darkness that make them famous.  
And Aiden looks smug and Ashley wants to cut the expression from his face.  
But Spencer's blue stare, it locks onto Ashley with a sort of naked intensity. Brief, but knowing. Quick, but with more depth than the damn ocean.  
And, quite suddenly, Ashley feels more exposed than any other time in existence, as if Spencer Carlin can see more than what meets the eye.

As if Spencer Carlin sees Ashley Davies, the true version, and instead of turning away...

...Spencer is silently beckoning.

And Ashley knows she is going to respond.

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	5. the scene

You didn't duck and cover out in those fields. Sure, you knew better than to make a fuss and you knew better than to tell the world of whatever girl gathered your affection.  
But you were not closed off and shuttered away.

You held their hands and you brushed away their tears.  
And they would sleep on your shoulder, just the stars and the trees to see you fall in love with every best friend you ever had.

Besides, you didn't have to suffer the fall-out of a brief kiss and a shocked stare and the sound of your skirt as you ran out the screen door.  
You were nineteen then and that girl would probably carry that clench to the grave anyhow.

That girl is probably married and has little ones hanging about her stocking-clad legs.

And you... You got noticed and got signed and got to pretend your life away.

/ /

"Are you really a fan?"

Blue eyes look up quickly, catching Ashley's gaze in the mirror. And Spencer smiles slowly, tilting that head of blonde hair down just a tad.

"Would you be horribly offended if I told you that I've never seen one of your pictures?"

A year or so back, Ashley would have been miffed. A comment such as this one would have been a blow to her ever-growing ego. She would have taken it personally. She would have questioned the very ability that keeps her world in balance - not just on set, not just on stage, but in every way possible.

In a marriage. In the magazines. Even in those secluded bars with those clandestine faces.

But right now, in the ladies room of this establishment, Ashley does not feel the slightest prick of annoyance.  
And it could be because she has grown used to fame, grown used to insincere accolades and epic amounts of brown-nosing.

But, really, Ashley thinks it just might be down to Spencer Carlin.

"I'm not offended, horribly or otherwise." Ashley replies, allowing a grin of her own to easily show.

And it causes Spencer's gaze to hold quite wonderfully in the reflection.  
Ashley refrains from blinking, not wanting to shatter this moment and watch it float away.

"Of course, I'll see the one you did with Glen." Spencer's smile turns into a wry kind of thing and Ashley matches it note for note.  
"Of** course**. Does he make you watch his films?"  
"Sort of..."

They are still watching one another, Spencer in front of the powder mirror and Ashley leaning against the wall, and there is a warmth building in this mutual appraisal.  
There are other things being said. There are other hints being laid out and subsequently found.

"Does he make you pay for a ticket as well?" Ashley smirks and Spencer's light chuckle runs the length of Ashley's spine.

That laugh dances into Ashley's blood-stream and catches the brunette on fire, insides hot and dangerous, and it must show something awful.  
It must resonate out from Ashley's body and hit Spencer like an invisible wave.  
Because the blonde takes this deep breath, this intake of air that Ashley can practically see as it rolls through Spencer's shoulders and out of her perfect lips.

As if she is breathing in all of what Ashley is begging to convey.

"Not anymore." Spencer responds, the mirth still evident in her tone, and Ashley shakes her head in a rueful manner.  
"What poor manners your brother has."  
"He certainly has his moments, but I've put up with him for this long. Can't see myself stopping now."

Spencer rolls her eyes and Ashley has this sudden urge to push away from this wall, to cross the very vague lines between the two of them, and slide her hand over Spencer's cheek.  
Instead, she continues to grin and she swallows down the impulse.  
For now, at any rate.

And the door opens, allowing a woman to come in and step up to the vanity, digging around her clutch and clucking her tongue when she cannot find whatever it is she is searching for.  
And Spencer looks away.  
And Ashley does the same.

Moment over all too soon.

/ /

Glen and his lady of the moment are drunk, happily so, and Aiden is a sore spot at the table when the women return.  
But he'll save the chastisement for when they get home, housekeeper gone and maids asleep.  
And in the room they must share, he'll tell her she is being reckless, that she is being foolish, that she is toying with both of their futures.

Aiden has said these things many times before.

And it used to stick. It used to mean more, not because of him, but because of what she had worked so hard to have - that house and that status and that money and that name up in lights.  
It used to work so well, this need to be on top and to rule the world and to have so much adoration pour into her lap.

But it gets older each and every day.  
And Aiden may still get his kicks on the weight he gets to throw around - on the golf course, at the parties, in those clubs after midnight - but it is on Ashley's star that he rises.  
Not the other way around.

And tonight, tonight Ashley doesn't feel like playing along for his sake.  
Or anyone else's.  
Maybe not even her own.

As Glen and Betty joke and as Aiden tries to pay attention to them, Ashley leans over and touches Spencer's hand upon the table.  
It is a light touch. It is not filled with pressure, just a promise.

"We're doing a couple of scenes down at the beach tomorrow. You should come down and bring your camera... I can clear it for you, if you like?"

Her fingers stay there, on soft and smooth flesh, and Spencer does not recoil from this advance. But Ashley did not truly believe the woman would.

"I'd love that."

_As would I, Spencer Carlin, as would I..._

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	6. the subtext

_"Is that... what I __**think**__ it is?"  
"Yep. Looks like Smitty took a swim..."  
"This is no time for jokes, O'Riley!"  
"Look, __**darlin'**__, if you can't the heat-"_

_She glares at the man, hating his callousness. And yet... yet, he is the only one who can figure out why her father was murdered.  
She has to throw her lot in with O'Riley, even if he is uncouth and just mere steps away from being a criminal himself.  
All private eyes are alike, that's what the novels claim._

_"I can take it, O'Riley. I just want my father's killer to be brought to justice."_

_And maybe she is mistaken, but there is a softer glint in his impossibly dark eyes._

_"I promised you I'd make that happen, didn't I?"_

_And they watch each other, for a moment, before O'Riley looks back at Smitty and she keeps her eyes on the ocean as it rolls in._

_"Yea... yea you did, O'Riley..."_

And the director calls cut. And her co-star waves over the make-up girl impatiently, the sun starting to make the foundation sweat off his forehead and into his eyes.  
And the lens of the camera is tilted back as they wait for the next scene to be set up, wait for discussions and for the equipment to be moved.

And Ashley is sweating, too. The California heat already beating down, even though it is still morning, and she wishes she could strip this outfit off.  
Heavy burgundy cloth and nice ivory blouse, high heel shoes in the sand, and she'd give anything to take it all off and run out into the waves.

To cool off. To float away. To never come back.

But, of course, if she drifted off - to an island no one has heard of or to a watery demise - Ashley wouldn't be able to turn her head to the left and find Spencer Carlin standing only twenty feet away.

Spencer, with her camera raised, not at all intrusive with each click-click-click.  
Spencer, capturing grips at work and crew with shirts off, capturing 'Smitty' as he lay dead and the actor as he gets up - grinning at this blonde girl as she snaps his photograph.  
And then the focus is on Ashley, caught looking and no time to fashion a false appearance, and Spencer just might have snagged a piece of Ashley's soul in that shot.

But Spencer lowers the camera and smiles at her, as if it were nothing at all.  
And Ashley smiles back, chancing a small wave, which Spencer returns.

And Ashley decides that she cannot stay over here any longer, she cannot stay away from Spencer Carlin any longer.

"Hey, I need ten minutes." She calls out to the director and he frowns at her.  
"I can't have the **both **of you disappearing."  
"I'm just stepping over here for some water, Mark. Don't worry."  
"Fine, fine..."

Normally, Mark Wilson is one of the few directors she gets along with. But this film is taking its toll on the man and Ashley knows that her co-star is making things rocky. And that just, naturally, trickles down into everything else.  
They all get snappy. They all get frustrated.  
And Ashley likes to believe that she'll never act out like that again on set, but she probably will.

Sometimes that's all you have, sometimes you have to be a bitch just to remind yourself that life is not perfect - not even for the rich and the famous.

Still, there is a pretty blonde dead ahead and suddenly the warmth of the day doesn't matter so much, Mark's irritation doesn't matter so much, her co-star and his sense of entitlement doesn't matter so much.

Not much matters right now, just Spencer Carlin.

/ /

"Enjoying yourself?"  
"Very. Thank you again. I've never had an opportunity like this before."  
"Not even with Glen?"  
"Oh please... We love each other, we really do, but Glen thinks of Hollywood as **his** world. And my world is firmly in Ohio, at least in his eyes."

They are walking away from everyone else, both of them with paper cups of water, inches of air between them as they move.  
They look at one another and then look forward, back and forth.  
As if they are checking in, as if they are making sure that the course is the same as before, as if to make sure this is actually happening.

"So that's where you Carlin kids are from, hmm?"  
"Yep. Born and raised in your typical small town... which is why I had to get away so badly."

They share a laugh and a grin.

"I can understand that."  
"Can you?"  
"Sure. I came from a small town as well, filled up with corn fields and milk cows..."  
"Really? It's hard to imagine **you** from a place like that."

And it probably is hard to imagine, with all the accessories of fame upon her person.  
It is probably hard to imagine Ashley Davies as just a girl from somewhere east of RKO.  
Ashley looks hard at the sand below her feet, reminded so quickly of that home she used to have, to the weathered hands of her grandmother as they peeled the skin from apples, to the days she spent cursing her own feelings and the nights she spent dreaming of comets in the sky.  
And she can feel Spencer's innocent gaze on her bent head, questions waiting in the wings.  
And, for a moment, she wants to stop walking and she wants to speak from her hidden heart and she wants to be held.

Like a child, who longs for her family.  
Like a woman, who longs for real love.  
Like someone who misses something intangible, yet something incredibly vital.

"Ashley?" Spencer's soft voice calls out and there is a hand on Ashley's arm, bringing her to a halt. And she tries to blink it all away, that mock past, and she smiles half-heartedly.  
Spencer must know it is all an act, the blonde is no fool.  
And they are treading such unsure waters with each other, so close to unspoken needs and so far from a world where such things can come true.

So, Ashley shoves it all down and makes that smile a bit brighter.

"I should get back. Mark will be having kittens by now."  
"Are you sure...? I mean, are you-"  
"I'm fine. Promise."

Spencer nods and does not believe. Ashley expects no less from this woman, this woman who is slipping into Ashley's head with so much ease, into Ashley's body with so much care.

"Can we... That's to say, would you like to have a drink after you are done for the day? Of course, you might want to go home and rest... Never-mind, I don't know-"

But Ashley's laugh is real. And it makes the smile real, too. And, again, Ashley is aware of how everything seems to fade away in the face of Spencer Carlin.  
It is over-powering. It is crazy and it is madness.

But to say 'no' was never an option.

"I'd like that a lot, Spencer."

The blonde stops rambling and grins self-consciously, nodding her head in silent agreement.

And right as Ashley is turning to leave, turning back to this film and this co-star and this realm of star-makers, Spencer reaches out.  
Fast and light, blink and you could have missed it, but Ashley won't ever forget this second in time - not for the rest of her life.

A simple press of the lips to Ashley's cheek.

That's all.

That's all it is and that's all it took.

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	7. the prelude

It's one of the in-between places, where she knows the various faces at each table - a manager, a fellow actor or actress, men with fat cigars and women with minks about their necks - and she recognizes the gentlemen behind the bar, a shiny smile to each patron as they mix cocktails and pour shots of whiskey.

A shiny smile glides over to Ashley and to Spencer as well.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Davies. The usual?"  
"Sure, Paul... And Ms. Carlin will have...?"

Brown eyes meet with blue and she watches as Spencer shrugs good-naturedly in response.

"You choose."

And Ashley cannot help the grin that blossoms on her lips, one that Spencer warmly matches.  
Without looking away, a little too caught up in this moment and a little too happy to give a damn, Ashley murmurs for Paul to 'make two of the same'.

"Right away, Ms. Davies."

Paul gets to work, sweet smelling liquids splashing into a shaker, followed by the sounds of ice against metal. Ashley has spent many a hour at this bar, watching Paul create drink after drink. She let herself go here, a couple of times, early in her career.

Before she learned better. Before marriage and Aiden. Before a lot of things she'd rather not have to remember became the only things she had to keep in mind.

"Should I be fearing a sore head already?"

Spencer's voice and steady gaze tether Ashley to the present, however.  
There might be a smile that will linger. There might be a touch that affects more than just flesh.  
But Ashley won't be tripping over her own feet again.

There are other places for such actions. Places that only open after midnight, kept in the dark and away from the break of day, a haven for those who have something to hide.  
In those places, Ashley can do more than hint.  
In those places, Ashley can have.

"Only if you have more than three. And if that is your intention, warn me now." Ashley playfully points a finger at the blonde and raises one eyebrow, to which Spencer emits a chuckle.  
"No need to worry. If I were to get drunk, I wouldn't be able to enjoy this afternoon at all... and I could** never **forgive myself for that."

In Spencer's eyes, though, there is something unafraid.  
In the soft tones of Spencer's voice there is something very much aware.  
Out here, in the daylight and with so many people around, Spencer doesn't seem to tread lightly or with trepidation.  
That look is not reserved for the shadows and that voice is not a whisper from behind locked doors.

Spencer isn't hinting, not in the slightest.

And it should put Ashley on the back-foot, should make her think twice, should make her rein in this furious attraction that is bouncing between them.

But it doesn't.  
It just makes it that much stronger.

And, surely, there will be regrets to be had - but neither of them seem to care.

/ /

You've learned to keep a lid on things. You've learned the way to make your mouth move and to not say anything of importance. You know how to turn your head and catch the light, how to lower your lashes and look demure.  
You are a master of emotion - when to cry, when to laugh, when to frown, when to get mad - and you can turn it on at will.

And you can turn it all off, too.

You can be like stone, hard and cold. You can be impenetrable, a fortress made of curves.  
You can tell a thousand stories and none of them are true, a patch-work quilt of lies and pretty deceptions.  
You've played this game and you know the rules, the ones you can bend and the ones you can never break.

In return, they give you money and they give you houses. They give you cars and fame and they kiss your backside every time you lean over.

In return, you get the world as everyone sees it.

It's only when you look a little closer, look a little deeper, that you see that all you've ever really wanted is just out of reach.

Just over that god-damn rainbow.

/ /

Hours glide by, minutes flowing over each other, and it is only when a waiter approaches their table with the night's dinner menu that Ashley blinks her attention away from Spencer.

They had covered a lot of ground with one another in conversation, from jolly tales of Carlin youth - the spats between brother and sister, the school-house dramas and general family life of Ohio.  
Ashley even divulged a tidbit or two about her own childhood, back in a home with exactly four rooms and one child running wild within them, driving her grandparents up the wall with her antics.

One story in particular had Spencer laughing so hard that the woman was holding onto her sides and turning a tad red in the face.

_"Oh, it's funny __**now**__... But at the time, I ran as fast as I could. Hid in the cellar all through the day."  
"What happened when they found out?"  
"I think I distinctly heard my grandfather shout out some very nasty words and there was a threat tossed out about 'his belt meeting my hide'..."_

_Spencer winced in sympathy and reached out, quite without caution, to lay her hand over Ashley's. It was a light hold, delicate and tender, the kind of caring touch that Ashley tended to forget existed.  
But she didn't shove Spencer's advance away - she relished it._

_"That sounds painful... So... did you get__** that **__kind of punishment?"  
"Well, by the time I finally came upstairs, it was long after supper and I think he had gone from angry to worried. They both gave me a stern talking to, however. Said if I wanted to jump up and down so badly to do it on the ground because the ground doesn't break so easily... Not like their bed."_

_They shared an amused look, smiling at each other, totally at ease. And Ashley ever so slowly turned her hand until her palm met with Spencer's.  
And it was just for a few seconds, not much more than that. But they were holding hands.  
And Spencer's smile seemed to widen, seemed to grow in its brightness._

_And Ashley could hardly stand to look at the sight... because she absolutely adored it._

"Would you like something to eat?"  
"I'd love to... if you are sure I'm not keeping you...?"

They are no longer holding hands. The afternoon crowd is gone and is being replaced by the real movers and shakers of Hollywood, the head honchos and their wives, the starlets making the scene here before they dart off to seedy dives.  
Ashley would be half surprised to see Glen Carlin show up soon with his newest girl.

This is the place you go to not so much to be seen by your fans as to be seen by your competition.  
A safe middle ground for the elite to stomp upon.

Still, Ashley reaches out this time, laying slight pressure to Spencer's smooth wrist.

"Believe me, Spencer, when I say that this has been one of the most enjoyable days I've had in a **long** while and I... I don't want it to end."

And the words are not practiced, not rehearsed, not said in front of camera-men and a director. They come out of Ashley naturally.  
They are honest words, as honest as she can allow herself to be, and it feels good to say what she actually means for a change.

Spencer nods in reply, a faint tinge of pink to her cheeks.  
And Ashley grazes as much of Spencer's skin as she can as her fingers leave.

"I feel the same way."

And Spencer's quiet admission only adds to the pleasure of this day, pushing out any concerns about who might be gossiping and who might wonder where Aiden Dennison is this evening.

All Ashley sees is Spencer Carlin.

And she is more than fine with that fact.

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	8. the drama

And, yet, things always end - the picture comes to a close, the actors remove their masks, the crew puts away the props and the lights are turned off and the lot goes from alive to dead.

Everything ends, eventually, from childhood to marriage to dreams.

You sound cynical and you know it. You no longer try to fight off that sentiment - it is as much a part of you as your skin, tan and lovely and bitter.  
You sound like someone who is giving up, after years of giving in to all that glittered and all that you thought was gold, giving up that ancient wish to be more than you truly are.

You are not a star up in the sky.

You are the comet. Beautiful but brief.

Because only true things last, only real and honest things go on and on as the rest of the world crumbles to dust.

And that's not you, with your hundred dollar coat and your satin shoes and your fake smiles and your eyes always a shade too shadowed - always a bit too hidden - you'll burn out just like a thousand women before you.

You'll end just like everything else and who will remember your name? Will it be a footnote in the obituaries? Or will it be an article in Variety Magazine, talking about your pretty face and your sanguine performances?  
Will anyone in that small town recall your girlish whims up in the tree-tops as the reel rolls on and tells of your passing?

Will anyone give a damn at all when you are gone?

/ /

Aiden's voice tends to grate on her nerves.

But that is nothing new, not to her and not to him. There are days where he is gone, off with friends at Lake Tahoe or slipping off to whatever lady-love he has stashed away, and Ashley is left with the blissful silence of his absence.

Gone is the sound of a tumbler being filled with ice and the inane way he likes to prattle on about what functions they must attend, what premieres he aches to be a part of, a photo-shoot or a garden party or a million other things that Aiden adores.

And that Ashley abhors.

Fame, like make-up, comes off with the barest push of fingertips - a touch too strong and you are left totally revealed. And Ashley feels terribly exposed these days.

Tired of acting. Tired of the endless pretense. Tired of the multiple personalities she must maintain, all for the sake of something she is no longer sure she even desires.

And Aiden's voice only adds to her internal despair, stripping away the joy she felt for most of the day - Spencer's grinning face already like a mirage in Ashley's mind - and she is standing there as this man who shares her home and her money and her whole life wraps up his phone call with a chuckle and a cooing word.

Every bit the actor she is, that is Aiden Dennison, a noose she fashioned herself.

And so the next act begins, as always, even within these walls and with each other.

"I had to make our apologies for not going to Kelly's this evening." He says in that disapproving tone that Ashley has come to loathe.  
But to show anger is to give him the upper hand and they play this game all to well to be knocked out in the first round.  
"Oh, was she just **devastated** that we would not be there? Or was her sorrow just at not getting to see you?" Ashley asks with a small mock pout. But Aiden bypasses the usual scenery this night, fixing Ashley with a more pointed glare than normal.

Never one to back down, even when perhaps she should, Ashley matches his expression with one of her own.  
If the man wants drama instead of comedy, Ashley Davies can deliver at the drop of a dime.

"What is it, Aiden? Are you **that** disappointed to not be swilling someone else's gin and fucking someone else's wife tonight?" Ashley asks, casually dropping her purse onto the coffee table and yet not removing her gaze from his, not even for a second.  
"One wrong move, Ashley, that's all it takes and you can say good-bye to your **damn** career and all this money and everything we have-"  
"'**We**' have nothing.** I **have everything, not you. It's your moves you should worry about, Aiden."  
The man laughs without a shred of humor and steps into her personal space and Ashley resists the urge to actually shove him back, to shove him until he goes through the glass doors and is cut into pieces.  
"You are being too obvious with that Carlin girl. And if** I **see things, so will others."

There it is, the climax, that moment where the audience holds their collective breath and a good camera-man holds the frame. And a good director allows emotions to play out naturally.  
And a good performer knows that this is their make-or-break moment, where accolades and statues are born, where watchers become fans, where everyone is feeling what the performer is feeling and that is when you want the heroine to fight for love or country or home and hearth.

And others will see, Ashley knows this.  
Because with Spencer Carlin, the whole need to slink and shy away seems to falter and Ashley finds her actions growing more bold and decisive.  
And Aiden has seen, which was to Ashley's great pleasure.  
But other people - influential people, important people, the men with the paychecks and the makers of all those star-studded moments - they will see her missteps, too.

And if she were written down, created by talented souls and then captured on celluloid - Ashley Davies would walk away from this world of insincerity and run towards that hint of affection, that lure of possible love in heavenly blue eyes.  
But... that's not who she is, no matter the wild beating of her heart whenever Spencer is near or the need to touch the blonde woman at every opportunity, Ashley isn't the heroine.

She's the fool, yesterday and today and tomorrow.

With Spencer Carlin, Ashley Davies** is **too obvious.

And that will never do. Not in this world, the world Ashley cannot leave and cannot stand.

"I'm going to bed." Ashley says quietly, careful to not even brush against Aiden's shirt-covered arm as she goes around him.  
She goes down the hallway and towards her bedroom, taking some solace in the fact that he won't be following her.  
And he'll go off to Kelly's soon enough, once the street is pitch black and no one can catch him with the flash of a photographer's bulb.  
And Ashley will disappear as well, off to those old haunts, trying to run away but only running in place.

Trying to kill the obvious, over and over again.

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	9. the action

**For nautic187, who sent me a story to inspire me to write. It worked.**

/ /

You close your eyes and you remember so much more than you let on, so much more than the cameras catch or the papers report the morning after.  
On film, you are the star.  
In the news, you are a lady about town.

But here in your bed with just yourself, you are a girl on the run.

/ /

_Ashley isn't sure how she got here._

_But that is a lie, a tidy one, small enough to fit inside of her coat pocket and small enough to stay hidden from prying eyes._

_She is not naive enough to believe that this kind of anonymity will last forever. There is no chance of doing this kind of thing for a long time, for soon it will be men in tuxedos and wedding bells and all the trappings of a world that does not fit her._

_Right now, though, Ashley Davies can slide her well-manicured toes out of those hundred dollar heels and into the dark mud of her longings._

_For some, it is drink. For some, it is a needle to a vein. For some, it is orgies under the cover of nighttime, pool-side decadence shielded by Hollywood owned palm leaves.  
Ashley's needs, though, are simple ones. In fact, by comparison, she almost believes that this personal shame is not as bad as all the others._

_The word to focus on, however, is 'almost'._

_Ashley knows the sin she is committing. No amount of kisses or clenches or words whispered will change the face of society, will alter the judgment of God on high. No, this sin of Ashley's needs to be buried deeper than any Romanesque party or possible overdose in a nightclub._

_The sin of loving one's own sex, the sin of her eyes straying to each girl that passes by, and the sin of aching for the soft skinned touch of another woman - this particular sin carries with it the everlasting terror of being exposed._

_Loving a man to damaging distraction can be forgiven.  
Loving a woman at all cannot._

_But she is here nonetheless. An address slipped into her hand, quickly read and memorized and then thrown away. She waited until the clock hovered between one and two in the morning before easing her car out of the garage and onto the street.  
She kept the speed even, fearful of attention, fearful of being pulled over by some cop, fearful of questions that might come and not having the answers._

_No one stopped her, though.  
No one saw her or caught her or carted her off to the looney bin._

_Ashley Davies escaped the collar of her impending fame and, for the first time, she finds a world for girls like herself. And just like acting, just like the scent of success, it is enthralling._

_The first long look, the first subtle graze of fingertips to arm, the first shaky breath before lips connect - Ashley soaks each one in and inhales to the point of passing out, desperate for more and more, burning up with a desire denied for years and years.  
This will be the place that teaches her how to live more than one life.  
And this will become the place she loathes as much as she adores._

_No, Ashley isn't sure how she got here, but she knows that leaving will never be an option._

/ /

You open your eyes, though.

You open your eyes and another day approaches. Another job in the wings, another opportunity to kiss ass and toss out fake smiles. Another chance to perfect the art of pretending - on screen and off.

Another party with that man on your arm. Or, more appropriately, you on his arm. That's what all those ladies in beauty parlors want to see. That's what all those dime-store boys want to see, too.  
You might be famous and you might be prettier than most, but you are still a girl.  
To be owned. To be consumed.

You are a product, that's all you are, pressed in celluloid and presented to the masses.

You open your eyes, though.

And there's a girl in front of you, grinning while the rest of the universe grimaces, and as right as it would be to stay far away from this girl...

...You can't. And, really, it's not that you can't.

You just know that you won't.

/ /

Ashley gets closer and closer, a faint smile on her lips as she watches Spencer interact with various people at this annual greasing-of-the-palms.  
Glen is busy with charming the men in the suits with his rakish charm. Aiden is busy with alcohol and allowing it to be the reason he flirts with single girls at the bar.  
Everyone is busy with something or someone - and that makes Ashley's actions seem inconsequential.

Just an actress mingling. Just a woman speaking to another woman. Just a cigarette outside or some gossip in the powder room.

But it is more than that and Ashley knows it. And by the delighted gleam in Spencer's crystal-blue gaze, the girl from Ohio knows this fact as well.

The air off the coast is cool and refreshing and Ashley is captivated by how that breeze brushes through Spencer's hair. She doesn't want to look away. She doesn't ever want to look away and that's a problem - but it is one that Ashley dares not think about.

Ashley can't ponder the ground if she is going to step off the cliff.

"So, Ms. Carlin, are you enjoying this gathering of the who's-who of Movie-land?"

The blonde girl smiles out towards the sea, arms leaning against the porch railing.

"It's not too bad, I suppose."

Ashley leans as well, hands lightly placed together and elbow against the weathered wood, but she is not facing the shore. Oh no, Ashley keeps her stare trained on something far better than waves rolling in the moonlight.

"You suppose?"  
"Yep."  
"Well... would it completely ruin your evening if I suggested going somewhere else?"

And Spencer moves those eyes, tracking from the beach to Ashley's face in one graceful sweep. They watch each other and another brick of tension is placed about them, this wall that does not keep the apart but merely separates them from everyone else.

"Would it just be... you and I?" Spencer asks quietly, gaze still intent.  
And Ashley allows that faint smile from earlier to grow and blossom upon her face.  
"Yes, just you and I... if you'd like that?"  
Spencer bows her head slightly, in a brief show of pleased shyness, but the reply is unmistakable and it is the start of something big, something grand, something that will flip this tiny kingdom on its head.

"I'd like that very much."

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	10. the climax

**I do not normally use lyrics, but I was feeling romantic. And this song came out in 1934. Cool, eh?**

/ /

"The very thought of you and I forget to do..."

/ /

This isn't a party, swirling with eyes you cannot meet and with wants you cannot contemplate. This isn't a club, the kind of place where your desperation drowns and where your shame mingles with your need.

This isn't a red carpet or a dusty barn, nor is it the hallway of your grandparents' home or the sound of stunted rage in your pricey Hollywood home.

This is a realm you've almost forgotten, a dancing memory - spinning so close and yet so far away from your fingertips. This is somewhere you've never allowed yourself to go, letting the years pile up on your doorstep - fame for freedom, time for timelessness.

This is you, Ashley Davies, with no man's name upon you like a yolk around your neck. Unencumbered and stretching as wide as the ocean, this is you, Ashley Davies - you as you were always meant to be.

/ /

"...the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do..."

/ /

You've never wished for any other talent than the one you were graced with.  
Except for now. Except for this moment.

In this moment, if you could, you would trade your ability to weep on cue and your knack for embodying that 'every-woman' charm. You'd give it all up so that you could pick up a paint-brush or bury your hands in soft clay or wield the kind of fire it takes to mold metal.

You'd let all that picture perfect pretense drift from your arms if it meant you could capture this moment in a way that would last, in a way that would stand the test of time and its inevitable passage.

You'd capture Spencer Carlin, right here and right now, as she smiles at you and as she kicks off her shoes and as she looks at you with that curious blend of innocence and knowing. You'd give it all up to save this moment and make it as permanent as possible, something solid to cling to as feelings roll in and out like the tide.

You know all to well that emotions do not last, no matter how intense or how cherished.

But like the films you put yourself in, art lasts forever.

And you want this moment to last long after you are dead and gone.

/ /

"...I'm living in a kind of daydream, I'm happy as a king..."

/ /

She has you so effortlessly and you wonder if she knows this fact. You wonder how things were in Ohio - did she steal kisses, like you once did, or has she remained chaste? Has she fought the desires so near the surface? Or has she given in before?

Is she giving in with you?

Deep down, though, you do not care. You could be her first or her last or some stop along the way. She could be the experienced one, the teacher to your pretty student gaze. Or you could be the hand that guides, the touch that coaxes, the night to remember.

But she has you. Oh, she has you so easily. And you asked her to come along with you, but it is her hand that quietly slips into yours. It is her action that shakes you out of inaction.  
As soft as a butterfly wing beating against your palm, there she is and that's all it takes.

She has you - hook, line, and sinker.

/ /

"...and foolish though it may seem... to me, that's everything..."

/ /

Spencer starts humming and Ashley watches as the girl's feet dig into the wet sand, the two of them walking slowly along the shore.  
And Ashley knows the song, has heard it sweetly tuned upon piano and played after hours.

It is a song full of the romantic notions she plays out in every movie-house. It is a song full of things that Ashley chooses not to believe in.  
But tonight tends towards rules bending and, instead of staying silent, Ashley decides to hum as well. And Spencer's hand holds a little tighter as the words gently leave the blonde's tongue.

And Ashley does not sing along, though she knows every pause and every lingering note of this tune.  
It is not shyness. It is not even that she has a poor singing voice.  
It is simply because Ashley cannot speak or sing or even breathe in this moment.  
All because of Spencer Carlin's delicate pitch and all because Spencer is staring right at Ashley, both of them sinking and not even trying to swim back to dry ground, to steady ground, to the type of ground that the world expects them to stand on.

They are no longer walking.  
They are just stock still and watching each other as Spencer dreamily continues to sing.

"...the mere idea of you, the longing here for you...you'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you..."

Ashley finishes the song for the two of them, though, leaning forward in a heated rush and bringing their lips together.  
No thought for consequence. No concern for explanation. Nothing but right here and right now, this second in time that Ashley wants to know forever and forever, this moment that Ashley wishes to immortalize.

Spencer emits a small gasp and Ashley inhales that pleased shock of air, carries it to her own lungs and lets it nourish her soul. Then both of their heads slant and this kiss grows more ardent, removing that oxygen as quickly as it arrived and the sensation tugs Ashley closer to Spencer. As if an invisible cord tethers them together, they collide in the most wondrous of ways and they are pressed against each other - clothed hip to clothed hip, flushed chest to flushed chest.

And Ashley is finishing that song, singing it so loudly that the whole state of California should be able to hear it ringing in their ears - at least that is what she is doing on the inside, that's what she is doing with these kisses that refuse to end and with the sure touch of Spencer's hand to the back of her neck, that's what Ashley is doing when she cups Spencer's face and sighs like some kind of love-stuck fool.

Ashley is singing louder than ever before.

/ /

_I see you face in every flower, your eyes in stars above  
It's just the thought of you... the very thought of you...  
...my love..._

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	11. the interlude

Ashley shuts the door as quietly as possible, though there is no maid here at night to disturb and no driver waiting in the hall, with his hat in his hand, to catch sight of her.  
Aiden might be around, though it is unlikely after such a party and after such liberal consumption of alcohol. He'll have found a girl to warm his arms all night long, some quiet and pretty young thing, a charming lass who is bamboozled by the handsome line of his jaw. It could be the blonde who takes their coats at the club. It could be the brunette that hovered by his shoulder all night long. It could be reliable Kelly down the lane, married and bored just like most of Hollywood, casting falsely coy eyes to every man who strays.

But even with Aiden wonderfully absent, Ashley still practically tip-toes across the dark floors and silently navigates around the tables and chairs. She doesn't turn on a single light as her fingertips skim over smooth wallpaper and trip over sudden corners, as she goes deeper into this well-furnished home and further away from any lingering light of the moon.

And there, in the blackest part of the hallway, Ashley feels a small bit of the freedom she captured within Spencer's kiss.

There, in the shadows, Ashley allows her smile to open up like the petals of a nighttime bloom.

/ /

_Ashley planned the leaving. She didn't want to stick around a bunch of check-writers and ass-kissers all night long. She didn't want to fashion that placid expression upon her face and look at Aiden like he might matter to her._

_Ashley planned the beach.  
If Spencer agreed to join her, if Spencer got into her car, if Spencer ended up liking the coolness of the wet sand and if Spencer enjoyed the sound of the ocean rolling in once the sun had gone down... and Spencer did all those things without hesitation, without question._

_After that, though, Ashley didn't have a plan at all.  
She craved time with the blonde. She thought about Spencer more than she truly should.  
Ashley would hold her breath in an almost painful fit of anticipation every time she knew the woman would appear.  
And all of this had built up in Ashley's brain, in Ashley's stomach, in all the places that the world tells her to ignore and deny. And it had built up to the point of bursting, water pushing at a flimsy dam, and Ashley would lie awake at night - restless and aching with want._

_She __**wants **__Spencer._

_That is as far as the process of planning went, though._

_Ashley did not plan on kissing Spencer.  
One cannot plan a kiss in real life. It is not like the films she is paid so well to act in. It is not a specially crafted moment, with men telling you how to turn your head and how long to hold the clench and when to sigh and when to pull away._

_A real kiss just happens, without preamble and void of normal caution._

_Ashley cannot even recall the last time she has kissed someone and meant it, away from cameras, away from reporters, and away from all those hidden ladies that are used to keep the evenings from growing too long._

_But there was Spencer Carlin, her hair down and her ivory face so close and her tender voice like some kind of dream, and Ashley couldn't stop this moment from happening even if she desired to do so._

_It just happened like real kisses do._

/ /

She gets up in the morning, just like every other morning, taking her breakfast out on the patio. The milk goes into her coffee. There are fresh slices of oranges to go along with her toast. The paper sits there, opened to middle and paused at some story about some accident, the edges of the pages fluttering in the breeze.

She sees Aiden through the French doors, the bleary movements of one who is still drunk evident even at a distance, and he rubs his forehead as he orders the house-keeper for something for his 'lousy headache' - taking his coffee black, as usual, falling onto the couch he picked out and she bought.

That breakfast is barely touched, though. And that story of some poor soul's tragedy goes unfinished. Aiden and his need to wallow is ignored this time around, too.  
Ashley is in a state that she isn't sure she'll wake up from any time soon and this development should trouble her. This new distraction in the form of Spencer Carlin should worry her to the point of pushing the girl away - far away.

Instead, Ashley stares off into the lush green of nicely trimmed back-yard and sees nothing but Spencer's sweet grin from the night before.  
The shimmering mirage threatens to cause Ashley to release a daytime smile of her own. She can feel it tugging at her like a kitten with a string.

_Happiness and affection and that fabled thing called..._

"What are you looking at?" Aiden's gruff voice interrupts Ashley's train of thought and she is not sure if that is good or bad thing. Her eyes blink, as if clearing away a cloud of musing, then her gaze cuts to him and it is much less joyful.  
"Currently, a very pathetic man." Ashley bites back in a way she has perfected, cool and calm apathy for another human being. She rarely gets to display that ability on the screen, since she is always the 'nice' girl in those nickel-and-dime shows.  
At home, however, the claws can come out and Ashley isn't ashamed to say that a part of her relishes this chance to play against type.  
Especially because it is not an act at all.

"Where did you disappear to last night?" Aiden asks, drinking his coffee and keeping his bloodshot stare on Ashley's face.  
Aiden knows about her nights, not with faces or names, but he knows that she is not at all interested in affairs with the male population.  
Most men would be appalled with the real Ashley Davies. They would shake their heads and beg God to take her life instead of leaving her the languish in a world of sin.  
Aiden Dennison, however, is as morally bankrupt as they come.

But just because he knows about such things does not mean Ashley is eager to share something so potentially life-changing as a night with Spencer with him.

"I got bored and decided to come home. Where did **you** disappear to last night, hmm?"  
"Did you leave with that Carlin girl?" Aiden questions, moving right past her own inquiry.  
"That, much like everything else about me, is none of your business, Aiden."  
"Be **smart**, Ashley. We've got a good thing here."

She has to laugh at that comment because, really, they don't have anything at all.  
They have lies. They have anger. They have double-talk and bitterness. They each have a hollowness where there should be something solid, deep down in their souls, and Aiden keeps on finding meaning in being attached to Tinsel-Town royalty.  
Ashley used to feel the same exact way.  
But now there is this yearning for more, taking shape before her very eyes, and she is as terrified as she is desperate to see where this new road may take her.

That is what real kisses will do to you, though.

They make you see only the approach and not the after-math. They fill you up with so much passion that you think you can live on feeling alone. They create a lovely muddle of your mind and you forget things like judgment, things like scandal, things like exile from this world you live in.

And as much as she wants to drown in emotion, Ashley pretends she can keep her head above the water-line. Ashley pretends she can ward off this swell of love and still keep Spencer close. Ashley pretends that she can manage all her worlds and stay at the top of each one as they spin.

It will be the greatest performance of her life.

/ /

_"You won't... uh, tell anyone... will you?" Ashley's voice is no longer confident or even terribly warm. It is just a subdued kind of sudden terror._

_But Spencer's hands are sure against her shoulders and that soft smile is like a safety net, patient in its ability to catch Ashley as she plummets._

_"Ashley, I know better than to tell anyone about this, about us. I am used to keeping such things to myself."_

_Ashley releases a held back breath and looks down at the ground, feeling shy, feeling exposed, feeling like she should run away and feeling like she should kiss Spencer again.  
She is feeling too much. She is feeling everything at once and it is unsettling.  
Unsettling but wondrous, too._

_"So... I am not the first to snatch Ms. Carlin's attentions then?" Ashley asks this with a grin, though, and Spencer returns the gesture.  
"Not the first, no, but certainly the most alluring."  
"Oh __**really**__?"  
Spencer sort of rolls her eyes and reaches out for Ashley's hand, which Ashley freely gives over.  
"As if you did not know! I... I couldn't take my eyes off of you when Glen introduced us that night... Like a moth to a flame..."_

_Ashley is once again struck with a need she cannot ignore, so she pulls Spencer to her and wraps the woman up in an embrace. Ashley feels those arms encircle her, feels the press of palms to her back and running up into her hair. She inhales the scent of Spencer's skin, something wonderful and fragrant along the slope of Spencer's neck, and places her lips close to Spencer's ear._

_"I am causing you to wax poetic." Ashley whispers and enjoys the shudder that subsequently rolls through Spencer's body.  
"You are the cause of a great many things, Ashley Davies." Spencer whispers back and Ashley closes her eyes as she holds on tighter, willing and wishing the rest of the world away._

_"As are you, Spencer Carlin... as are you..."_

/ /

**To Be Continued...**


	12. the monologue

**Wow. Talk about out of nowhere, eh?**

/ /

She plays it cool. She doesn't lose her head.

She plays it like the finely honed actress she has become.

She pushes Aiden's warnings to the background and she reins in her sudden joy.

She steps into those shoes – the high-heeled wonders of a tailor's closet – and walks onto the studio like she owns it. She smiles at boys who sign her checks and she gossips with the right women as they apply powder to her nose.

She flutters her eyelashes and she laughs on cue and she swoons in some man's arms – at least until some director yells out 'cut' and the charade can once more end.

She is by turns sweet and sour; she is by turns aloof and approachable.

And then, when there is not a trace of the sun left in the sky, Ashley Davies runs to Spencer Carlin.

Ashley runs to the only person who does not expect her to be anyone or anything other than herself.

/ /

Spencer's golden hair seems to dance in the breeze and Ashley has to force her eyes to stay on the highway. But their hands are locked, Ashley's right in Spencer's left, and that will do – _for now_, Ashley tells herself.

"So… where are we going?" Spencer asks for the third time and Ashley feels a grin tugging at her lips in response.  
"Now, Spencer, if I told you that would ruin the surprise."  
"And how is that a problem? What if we get to wherever we are going and I don't like it?"

Ashley tears her gaze from the dark road before them and shows off what the magazines like to call her 'doe-eyed & wounded' look. It has been on many a promotional poster and has graced many a silver screen. It has made her the object of hundreds of letters – from sympathetic girls who think they understand her pain to men who want to sock some fellow in the eye for making her look so sad.

This is the look that keeps money in Ashley's bank account.

And, right now, it is working its magic on one Spencer Carlin.

"I… I just wanted to do something nice, just something for you and me… but if you don't really want to, I mean, we can just turn around and go back…"

Ashley does it just right, too; from wide stare to the biting of her bottom lip, from the words tumbling out in a stutter instead of a confident stream. Spencer's voice dries up in return and a look of pure shock is written over her features.

And Ashley can see the apologies about to flood outward in a rush, so she drops the act as quickly as she picked it up.

"Oh, Ms. Carlin, you are too easy." Ashley says in sing-song tone and that apologetic expression that Spencer was sporting turns into indignation.  
"Ashley Davies, you are a devil! I cannot believe you would trick me like that…"

Ashley cannot help it, though, and she laughs more than she has in a very long time. And Spencer keeps chastising her, but Ashley knows that no real damage has been done…

…because Spencer's hand is still firmly ensconced within Ashley's own, warm and lovely and perfect.

And they are still driving far away from Hollywood, far away from films and Aiden and Glen Carlin, far away from worries and cares, far away from all the lies.

With each other, tonight, they are actually heading somewhere – at least, for a little while… at least, for now…

/ /

You've been here so many times before.

At the door and then over the threshold; by the bar and in the shadows – just another starlet with secrets, just another abnormality that the world wants to cover up.

And you've been here before, bathed in half-light and with smoke hiding your own scent – just in case someone were looking for you, just in case someone wanted to catch you in the act of being horrible.

But, tonight, you don't feel so despicable or so terrible.

Tonight, you don't feel that wicked sting of shame and desire upon your cheeks. Tonight, the role you inhabit is one of pride and affection; tonight, you are the star of the greatest movie of your whole damn life.

Tonight, you are just Ashley and Spencer Carlin is in your arms. Tonight, you are a woman falling fast and falling hard, with nary a thought about what could be lost once you hit the ground.

Tonight, in this tiny space carved out for the likes of you, Spencer lets you lead this slow dance and her hands toy with the hair at the nape of your neck and you tilt your head so that you can kiss the soft slope of her neck.

"…You truly are a devil, Ashley…"

But Spencer says this in a whisper, all hot and delicious by Ashley's ear, and so Ashley decides that a pitchfork would go nicely with all of her expensive outfits anyway.

/ /

But she plays it cool. But she doesn't lose her head.

She turns around, like a revolving door, and comes out the other side as someone else.

Not a girl with dreams, not a woman in love – but Ashley Davies, a diva on this concrete lot and a name in a town that eats people up, that's who she becomes once more.

She toasts at the right parties and she keeps her arm intertwined with Aiden's. She holds her tongue if it'll benefit her in the long-run, but she allows some arrows to fly – if only to uphold the image of a girl you just cannot fully control.

She faces the cameras as they zoom in. She grins at the newspaper men and the fashion designers. She keeps her eyes wide open as the photographers flash around her, nothing but starry explosions as she walks down another red carpet.

/ /

But then Ashley runs like a modern-day Cinderella, runs until those glass slippers fall from her feet, and stripped bare like a babe, she shows up at Spencer Carlin's doorstep.

And the woman pulls Ashley in like a shipwreck from the sea.

/ /

"I love you, you know? More than anyone I've ever known or met…"

Spencer, pale and lovely and stretched out like the surface of the moon, simply gazes back into Ashley's awestruck eyes.

"I know, Ashley… I know."

And so the woman pulls Ashley down, down, down.

/ /

**To Be Continued…**


End file.
